It was as though God or Satan had leaned forward and crumpled the empire in His fist. A few fields and castles, a few rivers and valleys were spared, but most were caught by the curled fingers, the curved talons. Whoever one held responsible, the effect was the same; Normandy and Maine and Anjou were crushed, Poitou and Touraine savaged, the empire disfigured beyond repair.
* * *
And yet Rouen survived. French patrols reined-in beyond arrowshot of the walls, made their calculations, then withdrew. John and his commanders watched for the enemy banners, the swaying siege-machines, but they did not materialize. It was as though Philip intended to insult them into submission by ignoring them altogether.
Then they learned that their most powerful neighbour had also survived. Château Gaillard, a few miles upstream, the fortress built and christened by Richard Lionheart, his Insolent Castle.
It stood on a 300-foot-high rock, dominating an entire loop of the River Seine. When the Lionheart had first set eyes on it he had seen it for what it was and heard it cry out to be crowned. In the months that followed, the enemy patrols had watched from a distance as the walls and towers and corrugated keep rose above the rock. They had reported on its progress and when Philip Augustus had tired of hearing about it, he had issued a direct challenge to the Lionheart.
‘My scouts tell me that when your building is completed, it may well prove impregnable. I think not. I think I would take it, even if it were fashioned from hammered iron.’
Rising to the challenge, Richard had replied, ‘I find you too optimistic, for I could defend it, even if it were made from patted butter.’
It was a nice exchange, though it had never been put to the test. And for good reason, since the castle boasted three independent baileys, twelve towers, a deep central ditch, and quarters for eight hundred men. The causeway across the ditch could be destroyed at the first sign of trouble and, perched on its near vertical rock, the fortress was only accessible from the south.
To attack Château Gaillard, one would first have to advance along the narrow southern approach, braving the hail of arrows, crossbow bolts and sling-shots that would sweep the unprotected ridge. Then avoid the inextinguishable Greek fire tipped from the walls. Then smash an entry below the gatehouse. Then seize the outermost bailey and its flanking towers. Then bridge the central ditch, another target for oil and missiles. Then force a passage through the next gateway and secure the second bailey and its turrets. And still be faced by a further five towers and the corrugated keep.
It was not for nothing that Coeur-de-Lion had taken pride in his Insolent Castle.
However, before the last of the ox-blood mortar had hardened, King Richard had been killed below the walls of a far less significant castle, and it had been left to William Marshal to oversee the completion of the border stronghold.
Delighted to hear that the enemy had by-passed Château Gaillard, John said, ‘It will outlast us all, my brother’s monument. The French fish is showing good sense, for he’d never subdue it.’ He shook his head, in keeping with his conviction.
Three weeks later, an urgent message arrived from Roger Lacy, the long-time castellan of Château Gaillard, advising John and Marshal that the fortress was under attack, and that King Philip himself was directing operations.
* * *
The word that now came most readily to John’s lips was not Gaillard but Mirebeau. He told his commanders, ‘This is our best chance yet to land the fish. It can’t be done without risk, for we shall have to leave Rouen undermanned for a while. But it’s a risk worth taking, and we might even better the success of Mirebeau. Think of it, messires! Gaillard relieved, and King Philip here, before us, squinting with his one good eye!’
The threats and promises were interleaved with more sober discussions. The almost daily reports from Roger Lacy made it clear that the French now occupied both banks of the Seine below Gaillard. Moreover, they had laid a barrier across the tidal river in order to prevent any rescue craft reaching the castle. It was, according to Roger Lacy, ‘like a wall in the water’, and he obviously did not expect help from that direction.
The Angevin commanders studied the reports; yet, as with Mirebeau, it was King John who voiced the most imaginative scheme. ‘What the castellan said about the barrier shows he’s impressed by it. And if he assumes we’ll be frightened off, so will the French. It must be a formidable structure, but that might work in our favour, for it’s the weak spots that are most heavily guarded.’
‘I have one or two friends in that district,’ Marshal said. ‘They’ll tell us what we need to know.’
Within two days the Angevins had their answer. The barrier was, indeed, like a wooden wall, for the French had lashed together several hundred barrels, then attached planks to both sides of the pontoon. More boards had been laid on top of the barrels, so that it served as both a wall and a bridge. However, there was a second, more substantial bridge upstream, and it was this that carried the weight of enemy traffic. Marshal’s spies had watched for most of a morning, but no one had crossed the barrier. It was guarded, they said, by less than a dozen men, and these watchdogs were already looking bored with their work.
’Then that’s where we’ll strike,’ John decided. ‘We will launch a two-pronged attack, by land and by river. I shall lead a flotilla against the barrier, whilst you, Marshal, will take a force wide of the castle and attack the French from the rear. If we do this right, my troops will be off-loading supplies and weapons for Gaillard whilst yours are trampling a few pretty tents. And, God willing, you’ll bring us back the French fish for supper.’
After that, the king devoted himself to his ship-borne assault. He retired to his chambers, where he discussed the plan with Queen Isabelle. These were like the old days for John, the days preceding Mirebeau. He would not be rescuing Eleanor this time, nor leading his chevaliers on a wild, half-naked ride across country. But there were similarities, not least that both ideas had been his.
In his absence, the defence of Rouen would be entrusted to William of Briouze, the man who had helped him dispose of Duke Arthur. Briouze was not at all pleased to be left behind, and said so, but the king silenced his objections with a further gift of land.
‘I’m a man of my word,’ John told him, unblinking. ‘I promised to raise you to the highest estate, and you have already received properties in Glamorgan and Limerick. Now you have a further triangle of castles; Grosmont and Skenfrith and the White Castle at Llantilio.’ He smiled and added, ‘Much more of it, and you’ll be in competition with the Crown.’
Briouze denied it and bowed and went off to arrange the skeletal defence of the city. He now owned more fortresses and manors than he would ever find time to visit, yet the king’s largesse could not obliterate the memory of what they had done together on that clear, moonlit’ night, five months before.
Sooner or later the world would learn that John hadhis nephew, and that the king’s accomplice had squatted in the darkness, his body infected with fear. The truth would emerge because, when the shame became unbearable, William of Briouze would make his confession.
* * *
By the end of August the relief force was ready, the flotilla loaded and manned, the cavalry assembled. King John commanded seventy small river craft, each containing as many oarsmen, soldiers and provisions as the vessel could hold without wallowing. On the north bank, Marshal had mustered almost a hundred knights, then supplemented the contingent with a further sixty mounted archers. He was disappointed by the lack of response, though he prided himself that no other warlord could have raised even this make-do troop.
Among his knights were all but three of the thirty-four who had accompanied him from Pembroke. They looked wan and haggard, as well they might, for the reality of the past few months had exceeded their most extravagant dreams.
On their arrival at Rouen they had found themselves acclaimed as heroes. The crowd had, at first, directed its approval at Marshal, but he had then disappeared into the castl
e with John and the Sparrowhawk, leaving the citizens to visit their gratitude upon his knights.
Merchants had jostled each other in their eagerness to give these fine young men free-rein in their stores. They had invited the knights to dine, and afterwards trumpeted the beauty of their daughters or, failing that, their wives. The surrounding villages had vied for the privilege of entertaining Marshal’s bemused companions, and the churches had been filled by the assurance that an Angevin hero would attend the service. Each day brought fresh excursions, each evening a new host at table, each night a different bedmate. Since the people could not get close enough to their saviour, they would make life as pleasant as possible for his disciples.
The knights had reached Rouen in June, and it was now the last day of August and they had had enough. They assembled before the Arab, thirty-one of them, and blearily explained why the other three would not be present at the relief of Château Gaillard.
Two of the three were dead, one murdered by a man who had regretted offering his daughter, the other drowned when he had fallen drunk into a mill-race. The last of the trio had simply disappeared, no doubt following the ripples of his unearned fame. He would probably seduce his way to Gascony or the Spanish border, marry the prettiest girl in the district and settle down. No one would accuse him of desertion; it was enough that he had come to live with them and be their champion, this man who had served under the great William Marshal.
At midday the cavalry set out for the beleaguered castle, whilst the flotilla moved upstream towards the wall in the water.
* * *
Firmly established on both banks of the Seine and assured that the Angevin empire was already in ruins, the French perimeter guards were less than alert. Those unfortunate few who patrolled the eastern camp below Gaillard heard the crack of sun-dried briers, turned towards the sound and were almost immediately trampled by the charging palfreys.
The camp erupted in confusion as Marshal’s men spurred forward, his knights unsheathing their swords as they rode clear of the undergrowth, his archers drawing and notching their arrows in a single fluid movement. They loosed their shafts at any likely target and, although most of the arrows missed their mark, the French were completely nonplussed.
The attack had been timed for dusk, when soldiers turn towards their camp-fires and the welcome smell of food. Many of them had already disarmed and shed their sweat-soaked gambesons, and they were now caught unprotected, their only weapon a dice-cup or a leather flask. They ran for the nearest tent, the nearest stack of spears, but Marshal’s horsemen swept through the camp, charging down soldiers and shelters alike.
…By now the river craft should have reached the barrier…
An arrow whicked through the gathering darkness and cut Marshal to the jaw-bone. He yelped with surprise and felt the air bite at the wound. What was it I told Isabel? Do you think I’ll be harmed by the French?
The cavalry plunged on, flattening the camp, then turned in the direction of the river, intent on taking the upstream bridge.
…John’s men would have seized the barrier, and the axes would be out, chopping at the roped barrels…
Blood dripped from Marshal’s jaw and it hurt him to speak. But orders had to be given, and he couched the wound in his hand, as though nursing a bad tooth. ‘Get across the bridge! Hold it till I say!’
Darkness closed in like a third, impartial force. The riders had skirted wide of the castle and it now loomed beside them, overlooking both the barrier and the bridge. Marshal rode to the river’s edge and gazed downstream, but he could not distinguish the barrier. Just as well, he thought. There’s enough to do here.
The first of his knights had already hacked their way across the bridge and were fanning out on the west bank. Before long the enemy would counter-attack in force, and Marshal roared at his incendiary detail to prepare the fire-bombs. They were crude but effective; leather sacks filled with pitch and inflammable oils, the drawstrings pulled tight around a stub of soaked material. Thrown correctly, the leather would split on impact and the glutinous pitch ooze out, burning fiercely.
The men shouted that they were ready, and the warlord spurred forward across the bridge to recall his knights. Each moment brought more Frenchmen from the darkness, more arrows whirring through the air. Several shafts hit the bridge and, on the east bank, men and horses were going down.
No longer favouring his injured jaw, Marshal yelled at the knights to withdraw. They came back two to a horse, or on foot, some dragged along by their companions, others left to fend for themselves. Marshal waited until only the dead and dying were left on the western bank, then turned to follow the survivors. As he did so an arrow embedded itself below his left knee. He felt no immediate pain, but the velocity of the shaft was enough to hurl him half out of the saddle. He snatched blindly at the pommel, dragged himself upright and hacked his right leg against his horse.
By the time he had regained the eastern bank the pain had risen like floodwater through his body. Unable to speak, he made a feeble, indecisive gesture, but it was enough for the incendiary detail. They had brought tinder-boxes with them and now they scratched sparks on to the fuses and hurled their bombs as far as possible along the bridge. The first sack exploded obediently as it touched the wood, and the flames leapt up as though they themselves had been burned.
No longer in control, the warlord hung in the saddle, his gloved fingers curled around the arrow. Commonsense told him to wait until the barb could be removed and the wound cauterized and dressed. But he was also aware that he wouldcover more than a mile with the broad tip buried in his leg. By then, the razor-sharp edges would have severed the limb.
The western end of the bridge was now a mass of flames. The French were ranged along the far bank, exchanging arrows and sling-shots with the Angevin raiders across the river. Time favoured the besiegers, and they had already dragged two light catapults from their western camp. The first cloud of flints flew overhead, smashing against the base of Gaillard, but the next took its toll of the riders. They waited for Marshal to order the retreat, heard nothing and began to withdraw. They did not know that their commander had been wounded, only that they had achieved their object and were overstaying their welcome. If things had gone as well downstream, King John would have off-loaded his supplies, embraced Roger Lacy, then started for home. With both the bridge and the barrier destroyed, the French would be stranded on the western bank, whilst the garrison at Château Gaillard would settle down, replenished, in their impregnable fortress.
The riders streamed away into the darkness, skirting the base of the rock.
Abandoned for the moment, the half-conscious warlord closed his list around the shaft. He again remembered his boast to Isabel de Clare. Do you think I’ll be harmed by the French? Oh, no, my lady. The memory brought a weak, ugly smile and, mouthing her name, he pulled the arrow from his leg.
It was a necessary but reckless act; necessary if he was to ride, but reckless in that it robbed him of his senses. The arrow fell to the grass and he slumped forward over the saddle horn, his wound bleeding profusely. Made nervous by the sparks that blew from the burning bridge, his palfrey moved away, then stood quiet and patient, awaiting the touch of his heels.
* * *
The two knights had ridden off in the wrong direction, to find their way barred by the earthworks that supported the southern approach to Gaillard. Hurriedly retracing their steps, they all but collided with the silent rider. Their blurted challenge brought no reply and they both swung wide, ready to cut at the lean, bowed figure. Then, their faces reddened by the firelight, one of them said, ‘Hold back! Oh, sweet God, it’s him, I came from Pembroke with him, it’s Earl Marshal!’
They sheathed their swords, edged closer and peered at the warlord.
‘It is him!’
‘He’s been cut on the face.’
‘And here, somewhere on the leg. Wait, steady him in the saddle.’ He leaned forward and, as though guilty of lèse majesté, p
rodded tentatively at Marshal’s shoulder. He made no sound, though his body jerked against the pommel. It was answer enough.
The rescuers did not wait to bind his leg, but led him east and north and west around the base of Château Gaillard. On the way they passed a dozen of their compeers, some dying in silence, others with sufficient strength to plead for help. The knights ignored them, not daring to stop until they were well clear of the castle. Then, in the light of a full, cloudless moon, they fastened Marshal’s wrists to his saddle horn and tied a leather bootlace savagely tight around his knee, just above the arrow wound. The stream of blood narrowed to a trickle and they led him onward, in the direction of Rouen.
Some way short of the city he recovered his senses. In a voice thickened by pain, he said, ‘Is this your retribution for Mirebeau? Because your men were led away at the carts’ tail, you rope me like a felon? Then you lose your advantage, messires, and behave as badly as we.’
The knights realized that he was confused and, while one of them untied his wrists, the other said, ‘You’re safe, my lord. We’re not the French. We are your men, and we’re almost at Rouen.’
Marshal had time enough to say, ‘My blood’s drained out. I must not be seen like this. The Cistercians… Take me to their infirmary…’ Then he fell senseless again, and the knights retied his wrists.
Obedient to his command, they avoided the castle and delivered him to the austere Cistercian monastery that abutted the west wall of the city. The white-robed monks showed themselves to be practised and professional, though they asked several times if their dark-skinned patient was really William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil. The knights assured them he was, then watched in weary admiration as the monks drugged him with mandragora and cleaned and stitched his wounds. Only later did it occur to the onlookers that, if the Cistercians saved Marshal’s leg and possibly his life, they would expect something more tangible than a grunt of gratitude from their patient. Another monastery, perhaps, this one to be situated on his lands. Or a covenant, guaranteeing their Order one-twentieth of his income for life. Something that would jog his memory each time he put his left foot on the ground.
The Wolf at the Door Page 13